Tainted Perfection
by McWicca
Summary: With the tip of my finger I felt the point of the needle, staring at it as if it were and alien being. Before I could process a reasonable though, I had placed the needle at my wrist.


Tainted Perfection  
  
Disclaimer: Jason and Courtney are separated, Zander's dead, Sage is trashing Georgie's reputation....Yeah people, I REALLY own the show!  
  
A/N: One shot. This takes place in the current storyline. Maxie-centric. Just as a warning this is a very real and angsty fic. It's probably not any good, but I was trying for a slightly different, rawer writing style than in Till Death Do Us Part. Btw, I am so sorry that it has taken me so long to update TDDUP. I will try to get it done soon, but I have been very busy. Please review!  
  
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It started last summer.  
  
I can remember every detail about that day. Every smell, sound, sight, and emotion. It haunts me, smothering me, entangling me in it's twisted web of fate.  
  
And I can't escape it.  
  
It was the day that I found out what Kyle had done to me. In that 24- hour period my entire world shattered. He was supposed to love me, love me like I loved him. That was why I slept with him; I knew if we could have one night, just one perfect night of passion, he wouldn't be able to let me go. Somehow I managed to deceive myself to the point where I believed my plan was infallible, that he would be incapable of betraying me.  
  
When I found the truth, I tried so hard to be angry with him, to hate him like I knew he deserved to be hated. But somehow I couldn't. Instead, began to hate myself. How could I have been so ignorant? Why would Kyle love me? There had to be something wrong with me, and that's why he did it. Maybe I wasn't pretty enough, or smart enough, or sexy enough, or enough of anything. That HAD to be it. There was something wrong with ME. I WAS THE ONE WHO WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH!  
  
Things started to get out of control. My head swam with a million thoughts at once, and I seemed to have lost the capacity to make sense of them. I fled home, barricaded myself in the sanctuary of my room, and sobbed out every tear in my body.  
  
Suddenly, a small flicker of light caught my eye. In the corner of my room was the sewing basket I had taken from mom's room to fix a shirt. Sticking out of the top, like an omen from God, was a needle.  
  
Almost unconsciously, I walked across the room and took the needle in my hand. With the tip of my finger I felt the point of the needle, staring at it as if it were and alien being. Before I could process a reasonable though, I had placed the needle at my wrist.  
  
A morbid curiosity consumed my being. Slowly and softly, I moved the needle across my wrist. Nothing. I used a little more force this time, unsure of what I was working towards. Nothing. Harder and harder I pushed each time, unaware of what I was doing, looking at myself as one would look at a stranger.  
  
Suddenly, the needle fell to the floor; the hand that had previously controlled it flew to my mouth, suppressing a scream. I had succeeded. I had cut myself for the first time.  
  
Like a madwoman I ran to the bathroom. Blasting the water as hot as I could get it, I thrust my wrist under the faucet. As the cut stung upon coming in contact with the scalding water I was scrubbing it with, I realized that there was no blood; all that was on my wrist was a cruel, angry, red scratch. However, such a small detail meant nothing to me. I continued to scrub furiously until my hands and wrist were raw and sore. Even then I felt dirty. Grabbing rubbing alcohol from the cabinet, I began to rub that into my wound, wincing as the pitiless liquid seeped into the opening in my skin. Cotton ball after cotton ball piled in the waste basket as I tried in vain to wash away the horrible sin I had committed. After ten minutes I ceased the relentless cleansing, much to the relief of my cramping hand. Finding a bandage, I carefully placed it over the cut and stumbled into my room, trying not to let my lightheadedness overcome me.  
  
The next day Georgie saw the bandage and asked what had happened. I told her I fell. She never asked again.  
  
Soon I realized how addicting cutting was. I scratched small lines across my wrist at first, watching with interest as they gradually became longer. For some primitive reason, looking down and seeing the bright red scratches organized neatly in a row brought me more pleasure that I could imagine. As if that didn't surprise me enough, I soon came to discover that another emotion had become part of my ritual: pride. I had hurt myself. I had made cuts in my flesh. I was special. And I was proud.  
  
Cutting provided me with a release from the expectations of me; it seemed that no one had noticed I was no longer the perfect little girl I had been a few short months before. Suddenly I didn't have to be everything that I wasn't capable of. All my stress melted away, and I could wallow in the low expectations, if only in private, associated with the clichéd image of a "cutter." All my other mistakes were irrelevant, and the sheer rush of cutting helped me forget everything I did wrong. With a safety pin in hand, I was on an even playing field.  
  
Month after month I continued my private ritual, careful that my family remained oblivious; I could think of nothing worse than Mac learning that I was a self-injurer. Slowly I grew bored with my wrists, and the scars marked their way up my arms. I relished in the contrast between my pale skin and the dark marks. Even so, I cautiously avoided cutting too deep; the prospect of scars terrified me. For some reason I was compelled to maintain the façade that I was still innocent and untainted.  
  
I became comfortable with my routine of self-injury. Expertly I covered the cuts with bracelets and long sleeved shirts. It never occurred to me that I might just be easier to stop. Cutting had become as normal for me as breathing; instead of the devilish act I had perceived it as on that night.  
  
But then he showed up.  
  
Zander Smith. One night he stormed into my life with the force of a hurricane. I should have turned him away, abandoned him, called Mac, done ANYTHING but help him.  
  
But then again, I haven't done anything right for a while, have I?  
  
Perhaps this was the best mistake of my life.  
  
He knew. While we were dancing, my large bracelet fell off, revealing a menagerie of angry red lined blended with faded pink scars. I saw his eyes shift to my wrist before I pulled it away and snapped my bracelet back on. But he never said anything. My eyes full of unshed tears, he took my hand and wordlessly pulled me into another dance. His expression never changed, and I never saw the expected contempt and disgust shining in his eyes.  
  
He understood. And that meant the world.  
  
But none of that matters now. He's gone, dead, killed in the pursuit of a woman who didn't deserve him. Mac is in the hospital, fighting with the little strength he has to face a life of pain and intense therapy.  
  
And it's all my fault.  
  
Unconsciously I scratch my wrist –long, hard scratches—in a neat row. Grabbing my faithful rubbing alcohol, I spread it vigorously over the wounds. However, now I have no intention of cleansing myself; rubbing alcohol makes the marks more visible. Looking down, tears sting my eyes. My cuts are so close together that the redness had blended into one great patch; the actual scratches appearing as raised white lines in my flesh. I don't think I've ever seen anything so beautiful.  
  
But tonight that is not enough. Tonight I want what I have never had. Tonight I want blood.  
  
Cautiously, I bring the safety pin to my left wrist, which I have always favored for cutting. With a shaking hand, I press down and glide the tip across my skin. It opens, but no blood immerges. Again and again I retrace the cut, with more force each time, actions eerily similar to my first night of self-injury. Finally, after what seems like decades a thin line of bright red liquid lethargically immerges from the overused cut, as if it is awakening from hibernation. Barely breathing, I watch as the blood forms a drop, growing in size until my skin can no longer support it and it falls to the floor with a small *splash.*  
  
Instantly the tears that have been waiting inside me for months pour from my eyes uncontrollably, the salty water mixing with the blood on the floor. Through the blurriness of my tears I can still see the blood creeping slowly from the wound. Just as slowly I bring my wrist to my mouth, caressing it with my crimson stained lips as the warm, coppery tasting liquid invades my mouth.  
  
I have never hated or loved myself more. 


End file.
